;-NRLF 


THE  ENGLISH   TONGUE 


UNIFORM  WITH  THIS  VOLUME 

LAODICE  AND  DANAE  Play  in  Verse 

By  Gordon  Bottomley 

IMAGES — OLD  AND  NEW  Poems 

By  Richard  Aldington 

THE  ENGLISH  TONGUE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
By  Lewis  Worthington  Smith 

FIVE  MEN  AND  POMPEY  Dramatic  Portraits 

By  Stephen  Vincent  Benet 

HORIZONS  Poems 

By  Robert  Alden  Sanborn 

THE  TRAGEDY  A  Fantasy  in  Verse 

By  Gilbert  Moyle 


THE  ENGLISH  TONGUE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


LEWIS  WORTHINGTON  SMITH 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1915 


Copyright,  ipif,  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


THE    FOUR    SEAS    PRESS 
BOSTON   AND   NORWOOD 


« 


CONTENTS 


THE  ENGLISH  TONGUE  9 

COUNSELS  OF  KINGS  12 

THE  AIRCRAFT  14 

THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN"  15 

SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE  18 

THE  THROES  OF  NATIONS  19 

THE  SLAVIC  PERIL  21 

"S.  O.  S."  23 

AT  RHEIMS  25 

DUST  27 

THEY  KNOW  NOT  WHAT  THEY  Do  28 
ON  A  FLAG  POLE  FOR  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES        31 


o  i  o 

O  4  O  ,3       «' 


In  reprinting  these  poems,  the  author  is  glad  to  ac 
knowledge  obligations  to  The  Boston  Transcript,  The 
New  York  Times,  The  Reader,  The  Independent,  and 
The  New  York  Evening  Post. 


Art  is  for  life.    Oh,  poet,  do  not  dream 
Too  long  of  fairies  in  the  enchanted  stream 
Of  things  impossible.    Strike  fire  and  hold 
A  torch  to  light  the  pathways  of  the  bold. 


THE  ENGLISH  TONGUE 

Words  that  have  tumbled  and  tossed  from  the  Avon 

and  Clyde 

On  to  where  Indus  and  Ganges  pour  down  to  the  tide. 
Words  that  have  lived,  that  have  felt,  that  have  gather 
ed  and  grown. 

Words !    Is  it  nothing  that  no  other  people  have  known 
Speech  of  such  myriad  voices,  so  full  and  so  free, 
Song  by  the  fireside  and  crash  of  the  thunders  at  sea  ? 

Weight  of  the  Teuton  upborne  by  the  joy  of  the  Celt, 
Grace  from  the  halls  where  the  courtiers  of  Normandy 

knelt, 
Easy   precision   that   plays   through   the   laughter  of 

France, 
Mysteries  of  dim  Irish   fairylands   thronged  in  the 

dance. 
All  of  the  moods  of  the  world  have  been  caught  and 

'    been  sung, 
Changed  to  its  substance,  the  final  invincible  tongue. 

Words!     They  are  symbols,  perhaps,  but  the  things 

that  we  live 
Keep  in  their  closure;  the  joys  we  can  take  and  can 

give 
Narrow  themselves  to  our  speech,  and  the  life  of  the 

race 
Holds  to  the  scope  of  the  lexicon.    Idle  is  place, 

[9] 


Power,  and  the  marching  of  armies,  if  those  they  en 
thrall 
Thrill  to  no  word-glow  together,  no  cry  and  no  call. 

Words !    They  are  sympathies,  flotsam  caught  up  from 

the  waves, 

Passions  and  tempests  of  living  that  only  love  saves. 
Words!     They  are  insights  and  tremblings  of  earth 

made  divine, 

Swift  revelations  that  melt  all  of  mine  into  thine. 
Words!    They  are  human  outreachings  to  know  and 

believe, 
Throbbings  of  man  to  his  fellows,  to  give  and  receive. 

Speech  is  the  conqueror  sureliest  holding  his  reign. 
English  they  talk  in  Manila,  forgetful  of  Spain, 
English  in  India,  Africa,  Van  Diemen's  Land, 
English  along  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  Nile,  Rio  Grande. 
Out  of  its  fullness  come  friendliness,  peace,  and  con 
tent, 

Loves  of  the  hearth  and  the  council  when  hatreds  are 
spent. 

Words !    English  words !    They  are  circling  the  earth 

with  their  power. 
Kinships  spring  up  where  they  march.    Law  is  born  as 

their  dower. 
Guns  shall  be  silent  before  them  and  war  lords  give 

way, 

[10] 


Yielding  to  man  in  his  manhood  their  blood-purchased 

sway. 

Petty,  provincial,  and  barbarous  aims  shall  be  flung 
Far  to  the  deeps  in  the  track  of  the  conquering  tongue. 


COUNSELS   OF  KINGS 

They  have  killed  our  heir,  O  brother  kings.     They 

might  kill  you  or  me, 

For  the  death  in  Sarayevo  differs  only  in  degree 
From  the  death  of  kings  in  Germany  or  Austria  or 

Rome, 
And  they  can  not  make  distinctions  till  the  guns  have 

driven  them  home. 
We  must  hustle  them  and  frighten  them  and  drain 

their  blood  once  more. 
We  must  let  them  know  their  masters ;  they  must  hear 

the  cannon  roar. 
When  their  hate  is  toward  their  fellows  it  will  pass  our 

kingships  by. 
We  can  smile  when  burning  cities  pour  their  offerings 

to  the  sky. 

When  they  kill  our  kind,  O  brother  kings,  they  some 
how  lose  respect 

For  the  patent  of  divinity  that  hedges  the  elect. 

Then  the  task  of  wisely  guiding  them  and  keeping  them 
content 

Is  a  thing  for  which  new  ways  and  means  we  can  not 
well  invent. 

We  must  harry  them  and  shatter  them  and  humble 
them  once  more. 

We  must  crowd  them  in  the  trenches  as  our  fathers  did 
before. 

[12] 


We  must  give  them  marching  orders  till  they  learn  to 

come  and  go 
With  the  sureness  of  automatons,  a  thousand  in  a  row. 

When  they  taste  our  blood,  O  brother  kings,  our  king 
ship  loses  caste. 

We  may  seem  but  common  mortals,  and  our  thrones 
may  tumble  fast. 

When  a  single  hand  is  lifted,  thousands  rally  at  the 
sign, 

And  they  scantly  heed  the  dignity  that  marks  our  an 
cient  line. 

We  must  muster  them  and  fluster  them  till  every  mar 
shalled  man 

Makes  our  majesty  the  mightier  through  all  the 
gathered  clan. 

Then  the  fear  of  one  another  shall  be  fear  of  us  who 
rule. 

They  shall  kill,  not  us  the  masters,  but  each  one  his 
brother  fool. 


THE  AIRCRAFT 

Once  it  was  earth's  chief  glory  that  we  rose 
Into  the  clear  blue  where  the  free  wind  blows. 
Up,  up  was  man's  long  cry.    We  fashioned  wings. 
We  caught  at  wonder  as  an  eagle  flings 
His  strength  upon  the  tempest,  till  they  cried 
Their  madness,  war,  as  if  its  shame  were  pride. 
Now,  back  they  draw  us  from  the  rapturous  suns 
To  lead  the  furies,  signalling  the  guns. 

Once,  once  again !    Our  hearts  cry  for  the  air. 
The  sky  is  clear.    No  bugle's  burst  and  blare 
Bids  us  be  ravening  monsters  out  of  hell. 
Ours  is  the  newer  freedom  and  the  spell 
Of  speed  and  distance  and  the  sweep  and  swing 
That  mount  and  find  the  earth's  horizon  ring. 
Out  of  their  murk  a  fiendish  message  runs ; 
We  are  their  blazons  signalling  the  guns. 

Up,  up !    The  petty  and  the  mean  slip  by. 
A  blotch  of  green  below,  above  the  sky. 
We  are  faith  flying  where  the  falcon  fails. 
We  are  strength  driving  where  the  seagull  quails. 
We  are  love  breathing  where  the  swallow  wings. 
We  are  faith  lifting  where  the  skylark  sings ; 
And  down  they  drag  us  where  the  thunder  stuns, 
Not  men,  but  demons,  signalling  the  guns. 


"THE  FEET   OF  THE  YOUNG   MEN" 

He  must  go — go — go  away  from  here. 

On  the  other  side  the  world  he's  overdue. 
'Send  your  road  is  clear  before  you  when  the  old 
Spring-fret  comes  o'er  you 

And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you. 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

When  the  winds  are  breaking  cover  and  the  sky  is  like 

a  lover, 

When  the  flying  sails  are  slipping  out  to  sea, 
When  the  rain-wash  floods  the  basins  for  the  breasts  of 

geese  and  plover, 

When  the  sap  is  bursting  leaf  on  bush  and  tree, 
When  the  young  men's  feet  are  eager  as  a  swallow  for 

its  mate, 

When  the  stars  that  watch  the  distance  are  a  goad ; 
They  must  wait — wait — wait,  for  the  armies  march  in 

state. 

They  must  change  their  hearts  and  take  another 
road. 

They  must  march — march — march  against  the  guns. 
What   is   beating   youth   and   why   should   its 

dreams  break  leash  and  fly? 
What  is  water  when  it  runs?    What  are  all  the  stars 

and  suns, 

When  the  War  God's  pennons  redden  in  the 
sky? 

[15] 


When  the  snow  has  left  the  ledges  and  the  quail  are  in 

the  hedges, 

When  the  dragon-flies  are  spangles  in  the  sun, — 
Then  the  young  men  hear  the  summons  that  shall  hold 

them  to  their  pledges, 
For  the  rumble  of  the  cannon  has  begun. 
They  shall  check  their  thoughts  and  follow,  they  shall 

ask  their  own  no  more, 

And  their  feet  shall  learn  obedience  to  the  drum. 
In  the  roar — roar — roar  of  the  rifles,  they  shall  pour 
All  their  passion  into  blood,  and  perish,  dumb. 

They  must  march — march — march  against  the  guns. 
What   is    beating    youth   and   why   should    its 

dreams  break  leash  and  fly? 
What  is  water  when  it  runs?    What  are  all  the  stars 

and  suns, 

When  the  War  God's  pennons  redden  in  the 
sky? 

When  the  foam  is  on  the  river  and  the  boats  toss  in  a 

shiver, 

When  the  yellow  swirl  is  maddening  for  the  sea, — 
They  shall  walk  in  mud  red-oozing  where  the  dead  and 

dying  quiver, 
Where  the  shrapnel  rain  has  made  their  passage 

free. 
They  shall  know  they  can  not  falter,  for  the  battle  flags 

are  up, 

And  the  hour  is  past  for  asking  whence  or  why. 
[16] 


They  shall  sup — sup — sup,  as  the  vultures,  and  the  cup 
They  must  drain  is  blood,  while  hell  is  thundering 
by. 

They  must  march — march — march  against  the  guns. 
What  is   beating   youth   and   why   should   its 

dreams  break  leash  and  fly? 
What  is  water  when  it  runs?    What  are  all  the  stars 

and  suns, 

When  the  War  God's  pennons  redden  in  the 
sky? 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Brother  of  Shakespeare — brothers  as  men  must  be 

Who  sail  together  an  uncharted  sea, 

Daring  what  others  would  not  dare  or  dream, 

Fixing  your  eyes  unswerving  on  the  gleam 

That  through  the  darkness  and  the  storm  must  lead 

On  to  the  strange,  new  world,  the  fair,  fresh  deed, 

"Barbarian"  to  the  critic's  bitter  pen, 

"Freebooter"  to  the  thoughts  of  lesser  men — 

Brother  of  Shakespeare,  Shakespeare's  England  now 

Might  make  her  less  her  lovers,  but  that  thou, 

Lifting  her  up  to  wonder  in  men's  eyes, 

Even  so  didst  make  her  worth  the  glad  surprise 

That  turns  a  poet's  brain  to  joy  and  song, 

To  rapture  and  enchantment's  eager  throng 

Of  noble  Imogenes,  sad  Romeos, 

Fair  Rosalinds,  and  antic  Dromios ; 

That  makes  the  heart  a  passion  and  a  thrill, 

A  wonder,  and  a  silence  sweet  and  still. 

Brother  of  Shakepeare,  England's  strength  and  will, 
As  he  was  England's  heart  and  mind,  I  fill 
One  brimming  beaker  to  the  sword  that  hung 
Close  at  thy  side,  the  ready  hands  that  flung 
The  power  of  Spain  upon  the  tumbling  seas 
With  careless  laughter  as  of  kings  at  ease ; 
One  brimming  beaker  as  the  pledge  goes  round 
And  in  our  ears  the  world-wide  surges  sound. 

[i8J 


THE   THROES    OF    NATIONS 

Out  of  the  throes  of  nations  truth  is  born, 
And  out  of  hate  love  rises  to  her  throne. 
Ashes  and  blood  weigh  down  the  trampled  corn, 
But  at  the  last  the  spoiler,  flesh  and  bone, 
Rots  in  the  furrow,  while  the  exultant  hind 
Leaps  from  the  clod  and  knows  himself  a  mind. 

How  vain  is  human  strength  to  push  the  sun 

Back  in  his  course !    How  idly  breaks  the  sword 
On  gleaming  chariots  where  the  fates  have  spun 
Their  threads  of  guidance  and  the  wine  is  poured, 
Libation  on  libation,  blood  and  tears, 
With  treasures  cherished  from  the  priceless  years ! 

We  had  achieved  so  much  and  paid  so  much ! 
What  new,  stark  wonder  of  the  undivined 
Is  held  within  Time's  unrelenting  clutch 
Until  our  woes  have  made  us  mad  and  blind, 
And  some  kind  pity  bids  us  turn  and  gasp, 
Drunk  with  our  sins  and  this  new  joy  to  clasp? 

And  yet  can  there  be  joy  with  youth  and  age 
Tumbled  in  one  red  tumult  down  the  slope 
Where  we  have  dared  to  wreak  our  petty  rage 
And  take  our  will  for  heaven's  horoscope? 

What  joy  have  weeping  mothers,  though  their 

sons 
Have  pushed  earth  past  the  torture  of  the  guns  ? 


How  vain  are  sceptres  and  the  signs  of  power 

When  "Forward"  is  the  cry  and  change  begins. 
Bodies  she  asks,  beauty  in  all  her  flower 
No  less  than  foulness  loaded  with  her  sins. 
All  things  are  hers  to  do  with  as  she  wills, 
The  clown  that  dies,  the  lust-mad  king  that  kills. 

Peace  in  the  car  of  Time  puts  back  the  past. 

The  lords  of  earth  must  lose  their  little  while. 
The  far  eternities  are  crowding  fast, 

Great  thoughts  that  shame  the  petty  and  the  vile, 
Great  loves  that  reach  from  Europe  to  Japan, 
Great  conquests  for  the  larger  life  of  man. 

And  this  mad  price  of  blood  and  death  and  loss, — 

It  must  be  for  the  centuries,  not  the  hour. 
Not  always  and  forever  is  the  cross ; 

Not  always  evil  shows  the  front  of  power. 
Over  the  trenches  where  the  fallen  lie 
Still  broods  the  eternal  wonder  of  the  sky. 


THE  SLAVIC  PERIL 
(GERMANY,  1914) 

They  shall  be  quicker  of  hand,  when  they  waken,  and 

higher  of  heart, 
Gifted  to  see,  understand,  and  to  tremble  and  burn  with 

their  smart. 
Tolstoi,  Turgenev,   the  bringers  of  tales  where  the 

prophet-fire  gleams, 
Pushkin   and   Gogol,   the   singers   of   songs   and   the 

dreamers  of  dreams. 
They  shall  be  searchers  of  deeps  that  we  never  have 

sounded  or  known, 
Pain  where  the  weary  serf  sleeps  and  the  dangers  that 

beat  at  the  throne. 
Andreyev,   Gorki,  the  lashers  of  wrongs  that  have, 

shrunk  from  the  eye, 
Dmitriev,  Tchekov,  the  flashers  of  truth  to  the  pitying- 

sky. 

Out  of  the  sweep  of  the  years  they  are  swinging  to 

births  of  desire. 
Out  of  the  rain  of  their  tears  they  are  singing,  and  song 

is  a  fire. 
Out  of  their  dearth  and  their  blight  they  are  longing 

for  hopes  we  have  won. 
Out  of  their  pain  and  their  night  they  are  thronging, 

to  laugh  in  the  sun. 

[21] 


Moskowski  is  theirs,  Paderewski,  who  tumble  their 
hearts  on  the  strings, 

Conrad,  Lehvine,  Dostoievski,  a  rumble  of  storm-beat 
ing  wings. 

Slow  are  we  Teutons  of  speech.  We  are  muddy  and 
maudlin,  a  bit. 

How  shall  we  climb  to  the  reach  of  their  ruddy  and 
opulent  wit  ? 

Toil  is  our  portion  forever.  We  win  by  no  leap  of  the 

soul. 
Hard  are  our  hands,  and  we  never  have  thrilled  with 

the  thought  of  the  goal. 
Sluggish  our  fancies,  perhaps :  we  must  give  them  the 

help  of  the  guns, 
Tearing  our  treaties  to  scraps  and  outpouring  the  blood 

of  our  sons. 
Swift  must  we  be  or  they  come,  the  quickened,  the 

throbbing,  the  vast. 
Is  it  their  hearts  or  the  drums  beating  the  war  march 

at  last? 

What  is  the  light  in  their  eyes?    An  inscrutable  flash 
of  command? 

Each  finds  the  terror  he  flies  in  the  thing  he  can  not 
understand. 


[22] 


"S.  O.  S." 
[THE  LUSITANIA  CALLS] 

American  men  and  American  guns  and  American  ships 

once  more ! 
Give  over  the  making  of  gardens  and  garlands,  cease 

putting  your  profits  in  store. 
Afar  on  the  deep  all  the  monsters  of  ravin  are  crashing 

their  murderous  glee, 
And  out  of  the  lightning  that  darts  down  the  tempest 

there  comes  the  great  cry  of  the  sea, 

"Suspend  Other  Service." 

Give  over  your  dinners,  your  music  and  laughter,  give 
over  your  tennis  at  dawn. 

Put  coal  in  the  bunkers  and  batten  the  hatches  and  say 
your  good-byes  and  be  gone. 

When  wolves  have  rushed  in  from  the  wilds  of  the 
forest  and  torn  the  young  lambs  in  the  fold, 

Not  then  is  the  time  to  be  kissing  your  children  or  tak 
ing  the  count  of  your  gold. 

"Suspend  Other  Service." 

Give  over  your  hatred  of  war  when  the  warlike  are 

worthy  the  axe  and  the  rope. 
Put  guns  on  the  larboard  and  guns  on  the  starboard 

and  batter  their  last  periscope. 
When  evil  is  done  and  the  judgment  is  rendered,  you 

peril  the  world,  if  you  sway 

[23]  ' 


To  tender    forgiveness  of  wrong  whose  redressing  is 
not  for  the  hour  or  the  day. 

"Suspend  Other  Service." 

Give  over  your  dances,  your  paintings  and  sonnets, 
give  over  your  work  with  the  loom. 

Once  more  the  old  warfare  with  anarchic  Chaos  before 
your  new  fancies  can  bloom. 

Put  powder  for  sugar  and  cannon  for  cotton  and  cop 
per  for  wheat  in  the  hold. 

Your  traffic  is  war  that  the  war  may  be  warless,  secure 
from  the  mad  and  the  bold. 

"Suspend  Other  Service." 

"Suspend  Other  Service."    Some  moments  are  fateful, 

too  big  with  the  things  that  shall  be, 
For  dallying  questions  of  loving  or  losing  or  toss  of  the 

white-caps  at  sea. 
Take  patience  for  ballast  and  wisdom  for  helmsman, 

but  pour  in  the  coal  for  the  screw. 
Mad  folly  may  dare  till  she  clutches  at  air  and  the 

white  keel  of  peace  pushes  through. 

"Suspend  Other  Service." 


[24] 


AT  RHEIMS 

According  to  newspaper  reports,  some  of  the  wounded 
Germans  being  cared  for  in  the  cathedral  of  Rheims 
during  its  bombardment  by  their  countrymen  urged 
their  French  nurses  to  hang  out  a  larger  Red  Cross 
flag. 

Cry  out,  cry  out !    We  have  no  will  to  die. 
Have  we  not  hurts  enough  as  here  we  lie 
Past  every  hate?    Quick,  while  the  cannons  lag; 
Hang  on  the  walls  a  larger  Red  Cross  flag. 

Cry  out,  cry  out !    What  profit  can  there  come 
From  limbs  that  writhe  and  lips  forever  dumb  ? 
The  gunners'  hearts  are  heavy,  their  feet  drag. 
Hang  on  the  walls  a  larger  Red  Cross  flag. 

Cry  out,  cry  out !    Is  not  man's  life  too  brief? 
The  stalk,  the  flower,  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf. 
Even  at  the  height  of  joy  the  furies  nag. 
Hang  on  the  walls  a  larger  Red  Cross  flag. 

Cry  out,  cry  out !    Man  builds  but  for  decay. 
No  less  we  hunger  for  our  little  day. 
Sweet  were  the  homeward  road  with  staff  and  bag. 
Hang  on  the  walls  a  larger  Red  Cross  flag. 

Cry  out,  cry  out !    Some  farther-sweeping  eye 
Will  pierce  the  smoke,  some  higher  heart  descry 
A  nobler  end  for  strength  than  smouldering  slag. 
Hang  on  the  walls  a  larger  Red  Cross  flag. 

[25] 


Cry  out,  cry  out !    It  can  not  be  in  vain. 
Earth  was  not  meant  for  war  and  fear  and  pain. 
Sweet  Pity,  signal  forest,  plain  and  crag. 
Hang  on  the  walls  a  larger  Red  Cross  flag. 


DUST 

Great  swirls  of  dust  behind  the  rolling  wheels, 
Insensate,  dulling  all  the  wayside  flowers. 

Great  tumbling  clouds  from  which  the  thunder  peals, 
Aud  dust  is  stalk  and  leaf  and  petal-showers. 

Deep-hearted  asters  and  chrysanthemums, 

Born  of  the  earth  and  summer's  sun-warmed  rain. 

Low  leaden  vapors  where  the  north  wind  comes, 
And  petals  crisp  to  dust,  glow  sinks  to  stain. 

Dust  of  the  roadside  where  the  armies  bled, 

Dust  of  the  fields  where  what  they  were  is  tombed. 

Here  men  with  joy  shall  reap  their  children's  bread 
And  pass  again  to  dust  with  all  the  doomed. 

Dust  that  was  thought  and  mind,  that  grays  the  hand, 
That  lived  and  felt,  that  yet  may  live  again. 

Mere  grittiness  a  child  can  understand. 

Dust — and  a  something  else.    Who  knows  ?  What 
then? 


[27] 


THEY  KNOW   NOT   WHAT   THEY   DO 

How  dull,  how  mad,  how  senseless  man  can  be, 

Standing  in  truth's  high  presence  unashamed ! 

Not  boldly  like  hell's  harlotries  that  scorn 

Virtue  and  loveliness,  but  cold  of  eye, 

Thinking  the  demon  hate  more  fair  than  she. 

To  be  among  the  first  whose  names  adorn 

The  halls  where  science  searches  earth  and  sky, 

To  hold  some  shrines  where  martyr-faiths  have  flamed 

And  turned  back  error  to  her  dingy  cave, 

To  flood  the  world  with  music,  yet  be  dumb 

When  all  the  maddening  senses  mouth  and  rave, 

To  stand  where  knowledge  comes  while  wisdom  waits ; 

This  is  the  utter  pity.    Fools  will  strum 

Their  tinklings  to  the  moon,  and  never  know 

That  dawn  must  sweep  their  dreams  to  overthrow, 

That  while  their  pride  is  highest,  sterner  fates 

March  with  a  roll  of  thunder  to  the  gates. 

This  is  the  utter  pity,  once  again. 

They  who  would  sing  their  country  over  all 

Should  truly  have  a  country,  not  a  place 

For  losing  self  in  bondage.    Sacrifice 

Is  noble  in  the  end,  not  in  the  deed, 

In  gaining  something  for  the  lives  of  men, 

And  not  in  shutting  self  within  a  pall. 

How  pitiful  their  self -illumined  eyes 

Shining  with  ardor  for  their  home  and  race ! 

How  wastrel-sad  the  crowding  of  the  graves 


With  bodies  spent  upon  a  fancied  need, 

Dying  to  make  their  children's  children  slaves, 

Thinking  a  nation  not  a  bond  of  peace 

Knitting  men's  hopes  in  toils  of  fellowship, 

But  epaulets  and  words  of  high  command 

And  prompt  attention  and  the  bended  knee. 

How  simple  seem  some  truths  the  world  has  won, 

Until  we  read  their  faces,  stolid,  blank, 

Untaught  of  all  the  ages,  rank  on  rank 

Trusting  their  leaders  blindly.    The  increase 

Of  earth's  sad  lessoning  falters  on  the  lip, 

No  more  a  paean,  but  a  thing  to  be 

When  some  far  day  the  threshing  wheels  have  fanned 

The  last  chaff  for  the  burning,  now  a  dun 

Tumble  of  dust  above  the  pouring  grain, 

Choking  the  workers  where  they  tug  and  strain. 

Pity  and  pity  still  is  all  their  due, 

Not  hate,  but  grieving  wonder,  where  they  file 

On  to  the  trenches,  conquerors  of  Louvain 

And  countless  peopled  slopes  that  black  the  blue 

With  smoke  of  wanton  ruin,  self-deceived, 

Thinking  their  lagging  steps  lead  on  the  van 

Of  human  progress,  all  life's  little  while 

Flinging  away  to  keep  a  Kaiser  strong 

Over  tomorrow's  destinies,  bereaved 

Of  all  that  makes  youth  tremble  into  song. 

How  full  of  fond  conceits,  how  vain  is  man ! 
Beethoven  gave  their  lives  a  pulse  and  flow, 

[29] 


And  Humbolt  taught  them,  Hseckel,  Goethe,  Kant. 
Out  of  that  fellowship,  how  great  the  fall 
To  this  dull  trade  of  death  that  others  plan ! 
What  creatures  of  delusion  are  we  all ! 
Even  the  wisest  of  us  can  not  know 
What  best  will  satisfy  our  simplest  want, 
And  they  who  hear  their  emperor's  battle  cry : 
"This  is  your  country's  mission.    Come  and  die," — 
How  should  their  human  weakness  strive  with  God  ? 
Theirs  is  the  path  that  all  their  fathers  trod. 
Their  sons  must  learn  it,  and  their  sons'  sons'  sons, 
And  walk  it  proudly  till  they  meet  the  guns. 
This  is  their  love  of  country,  to  lay  down 
All  human  good  for  jewels  in  a  crown. 

Poor  outcasts  from  the  visions  born  of  time, 
They  yet  shall  see  there  are  new  heights  to  climb. 
England  and  England's  child  across  the  sea 
Have  learned  the  gracious  worth  of  souls  set  free, 
And  France  can  help  them,  with  her  clearer  eye. 
These  suns  shall  break  across  their  murky  sky. 
Earth  is  a  fount  of  pity  for  their  woes. 
It  is  not  only  death  Carpathian  snows 
Have  given  them  taste  of,  but  the  outer  world 
Of  larger  issues  and  new  flags  unfurled 
To  strange  adventures,  if  they  dare  to  go. 
Sad  victims  of  devotions  none  may  know 
Who  are  not  partly  noble,  earth  at  gaze 
Is  Niobe  through  all  her  roused  amaze. 

[30] 


ON  A  FLAG   POLE   FOR  THE  STARS  AND 
STRIPES 

A  flag  is  but  a  symbol,  zephyr-stirred, 

Flying  its  loyalty  against  the  blue. 
It  is  "I  serve,"  no  more  than  that  old  word, 

Pledged  to  a  fresher  hope,  a  larger  view. 

And  there  are  flags  and  flags.    What  faith  is  yours  ? 

To  what  devotions  have  you  given  your  heart  ? 
Pushing  your  country  on  to  what  endures. 

Giving  her  youth  a  clear  road  for  the  start. 

One  brick  that  shapes  the  strength  of  college  walls, 
One  place  within  the  ranks  where  armies  swept; 

These  are  your  answer  when  the  trumpet  calls 

And  each  must  cry  out  how  his  faith  was  kept. 

A  flag  is  but  a  symbol.    Here  we  fly 

Man's  hope   for  love  and  truth  and  spreading 

peace. 
The  war-clouds  blacken  all  the  eastern  sky, 

But  here  man's  fairer  nurtures  still  increase. 

So  to  have  fought  that  fighting  shall  be  vain ! 

So  to  have  lived  that  life  is  more  and  more! 
Unfurl  the  flag  whose  red  is  not  a  stain. 

Break  out  her  blue  from  shore  to  sounding  shore. 

[31] 


